


on the same page

by hereforlou



Series: the au where they're still famous musicians and harry's spoiled and they have two dogs [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-06 00:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21217571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereforlou/pseuds/hereforlou
Summary: He finds Harry curled into a ball on the couch, bed clothes around him and Nina resting her big head against the side of his neck. Louis has to physically stop himself from asking what’s wrong for the nth time, the sight of Harry so obviously, pathetically upset about something almost too much. But he’s given Harry enough chances to talk, he thinks. It’s his turn to be a prick.(Or, the one where Louis doesn't know what the hell is going on.)





	on the same page

**Author's Note:**

> To the person who submitted the prompt, I'm sorry if this is not what you wanted, I did my best! Hope you still enjoy it <3 
> 
> Thanks to Nic for the enthusiasm and the help, you're the best!!!
> 
> (Prompt down below to avoid spoilers.)
> 
> Here's a [Tumblr](https://hereforlou.tumblr.com/post/189975819811/on-the-same-page-complete-8k-he-finds-harry) post!

Louis hates it when Harry uses that bland fucking face on him. He hates the raised eyebrows, the chin tilting up in faux-ignorance. He’s a horrible liar, and his dodges and swerves may work on other people but not on Louis, who fucking _ practised with him _ back when Harry still got giggly and fidgety every time he was forced to give a non-answer or to change the subject. He may have perfected the face and the tone but Louis can still see how he bites the inside of his cheek, and how his fingers twitch and his eyebrows furrow, only slightly.

Harry’s got many tells. He’s managed to disguise most of them over the years, hours upon hours of painstakingly studying his own face and mannerisms in interview videos have taught him to keep his hands still and his face blank (except for the ocasional, overly-calculated grin) when in front of someone asking invasive questions. He’s good at it, but he still has tells.

The worst part is that Harry _ knows _ Louis can see right through him and he still plays dumb, sprawled on the couch where he spent the bloody night, lying underneath a blanket and two traitorous dogs (even Sid, the little sellout), phone in hand and eyes fixed on it because, whatever this is about, it’s apparently bad enough that he won’t even look at Louis for longer than a second. 

Louis stands with his arms crossed over his chest, the amusement and affection he usually feels when Harry acts like a brat buried under annoyance, and worry, and the all-encompassing heaviness of a shitty night’s sleep. He’s got no patience for this today.

He opens his mouth to ask, _ again _, what’s wrong, but changes his mind before he makes a sound. He clenches his teeth instead and walks out of the room, towards the kitchen. There’s a rustle behind him and for a second his heart lifts, because he’s sure Harry’s getting up to come after him and either explain himself or start a proper fight, but then he hears the clicking of paws on wood and his heart sinks again. 

Sid comes trotting into the kitchen, doing his best to trip Louis up and finish making his morning. His little body wiggles as he follows Louis up to his bowl, and he licks Louis’ bare toes as he pours the kibble in and replaces his water. At least someone still likes him. 

He takes care of Nina’s bowl even though she’s chosen to side against him this time, and then turns the kettle on. 

He can hear Harry speaking in the other room, either to the dog or on the phone, which… whatever. If he wants to work on a Sunday, Louis’ not going to stop him. Let the arsehole sulk and ignore him - Louis is done trying.

“There’s water for tea if you want any!” he calls a moment later, ashamed of himself for always being so bloody weak. 

Harry, because he’s always been better at being a stubborn prick, doesn’t reply. 

“Wanker,” Louis mutters to himself, an Sid looks up at him before going back to his breakfast. Louis follows his example. He makes tea (one cup, he _ can _ be strong), and pops a couple of day-old croissants in the oven before walking out to the terrace.

It’s not exactly warm out, but it’s sunny and the sky is a bright blue for a change, so Louis curls up in one of the wicker chairs with the big fluffy cushions that their mothers got for them a few years back and wraps his hands around his cup, eyes fixed on the sea of treetops stretching in front of him. 

Whatever Harry’s problem is, it’s been brewing for weeks. Louis’ been waiting for the explosion, is still waiting. He tries to think, tries to look back on the last month - the first uninterrupted month they’ve spent together in a long time - and can’t think of a single thing he might have done to have Harry choosing to sleep alone on the couch rather than in bed with him. To not kiss him goodnight or good morning probably for the first time since they _ started _ kissing goodnight and good morning. To lie when Louis flat out asked what he fuck his deal is, several times. 

And it isn’t like Louis got angry right away when he noticed something was off. He went through a wide spectrum of emotions before arriving at where he is now: seething and considering maybe leaving for a couple of days, beat Harry to it, get a hit in before Harry can get him again. 

He wants to write, because this is the kind of mood that usually results in a couple dozen ideas that he can use later, but he left his phone inside and he’d rather not have to see Harry’s legendary scowl again so soon. He sips his tea instead, and wonders who might still be in town and wouldn’t mind him crashing in a guest room for a night or two. 

He hates not talking about things. They’re usually good about it, Harry and him. They usually can’t stand to stay angry for long, and they both prefer to have a full-blown row, complete with yelling and cursing and barking dogs underfoot, than to let it build into something bigger and scarier. Into whatever the fuck this is. Especially if it’s about something stupid in the first place, and Louis thinks it _ has _to be about something stupid because he’d remember if it wasn’t. He usually knows when he’s fucked up

There’s a noise coming from the kitchen, and he turns to see Harry through the massive sliding doors, opening the oven and taking out the pan Louis forgot all about. He can see the charred remains of his croissants all the way from outside, the dark smoke rising to the ceiling. 

At least Harry didn’t let the house burn down. But he doesn’t even look Louis’ way before leaving the kitchen again, and Louis slumps back against the chair and feels his stomach twist with dread. 

Whatever stupid thing he did, it’s serious. He can’t remember it ever getting this bad, but then again, it’s the first full month they’ve spent together in a while. It feels like Louis’ fears starting to come true - the fear of unknowing each other, of getting used to the other’s absence, and suddenly preferring it that way. 

Sid’s sitting by his feet, little nose twitching as a breeze picks up. The tree tops rustle and sway and Louis sinks a little further into his chair. 

It didn’t feel like this when Harry came home a month ago. They’d both been traveling, but Louis got in a few days earlier, picked up the dogs and put in a grocery order so that it would feel more like home for when Harry arrived. And it did feel like home. By the time Harry finally crossed the front door, the house was properly lived-in, the dogs were no longer acting betrayed they had been left behind, and Louis had all but gotten rid of his jetlag. 

Harry was rumpled, hair a greasy mess, eyes heavy-lidded, but he’d fallen on top of Louis on the couch and had a good, long nap, as was tradition. Just as they’ve done ever since their lives had taken a turn and suddenly they were so busy they had to hire people to help them keep up with their schedules. 

Louis wants to march inside and flop on top of Harry and force him to nap with him now, to make up for leaving Louis alone last night. But he’s still got a smidgen of pride and still doesn’t know what Harry’s problem is, or what Louis did to deserve the coldest shoulder Harry’s ever given him. He’s not going to cave first. 

He does go inside, though. To leave his cup in the sink and look for his phone. He avoids the den, hears Harry still talking in the distance, feels his heart clench at the thought of him planning another trip when they’d talked about taking a rest for a while. He goes up to the bedroom and digs through his sheets until he finds his mobile. Sid’s followed him again, and Louis scratches him behind the ears as he thumbs through his contacts. 

Clenching his jaw, he sends off a few texts, trying to sound casual and not like his relationship of fourteen years is apparently in _ shambles, _ and as soon as he’s got an invite, he goes downstairs again.

He finds Harry curled into a ball on the couch, bed clothes around him and Nina resting her big head against the side of his neck. Louis has to physically stop himself from asking what’s wrong for the nth time, the sight of Harry so obviously, pathetically upset about something almost too much. But he’s given Harry enough chances to talk, he thinks. It’s his turn to be a prick. 

“I’m staying with Will for a bit,” he says. He has to force his voice to remain as even as possible, like this is something they do sometimes, like they don’t have four guest rooms to stay in when they bicker, which makes Harry sleeping on the couch that much more infuriating - he wanted Louis to see him when he came downstairs, he’s just a giant drama queen.

Louis watches Harry carefully for a reaction, preparing himself not to give anything away. He watches as Harry seems to go very still, making Nina lift her head, and then as his shoulders drop as he exhales. 

“Which Will?” 

Louis tells him, gripping his phone in his hand. Harry shifts under the covers. He doesn’t say anything else. 

He doesn’t say anything for almost twenty seconds, and by then Louis is gritting his teeth so hard he feels he might chip a molar. 

“Right,” he says to the back of Harry’s head, curls matted with sleep. “Guess I’ll go then.”

He waits, he can’t help it, but Harry remains stubbornly turned away, he doesn’t even seem to be breathing anymore, just waiting for Louis to leave. So Louis turns around, steps over Sid, who’s decided to snooze in the middle of the floor, and heads upstairs to change. There’s a bitter sizzle in his chest, his throat is tight and he’s so angry he wants to kick something. 

He packs a bag, cursing with every item he adds because he’s not sure if he’s packing for a night or a week or what, and then stalks to the en suite and grabs the little travel bag with toiletries he keeps in one of the cabinets. All the while he’s hyper-focused on any noise coming from downstairs, he’s half expecting to hear Harry stomp over to confront him, but all he can hear is the echo of Harry’s voice, talking to someone again. 

He’s always been spoiled - Louis has always made sure to spoil him. It’s partly his fault Harry seems to think sulking will get him anything he wants, whatever the fuck that is this time. Louis loves indulging Harry, surprising him, pampering him. Harry does his best to do the same for him, but he always overthinks, stresses out and ends up not enjoying whatever plan he managed to put together, which sort of ruins Louis’ fun, since a big part of his enjoyment stems from Harry’s a lot of the time. But this doesn’t feel like Harry sulking because he wants something from Louis. He puts away the last of his stuff and zips the bag up. There’s always something playful about Harry wanting a gift, it’s always a bit like a performance. This feels like Louis did something (like Harry _ thinks _ Louis did something, which he hasn’t) and is genuinely upset about it.

The problem about Harry overthinking is that sometimes he gets so wrapped up in his own little world that he’s not aware that Louis - and the rest of Earth’s population - don’t have access to his mind and can’t fucking tell what the hell’s going on unless Harry _ says _ something. Louis, of course, knows him and he’s quite good at figuring out what’s going on more often than not. He can usually tell the moment he’s said something that’s rubbed Harry the wrong way even when Harry doesn’t say it out loud. He can read Harry’s moods better than anyone, can identify a fake smile no matter how wide and dimply it is - but there are times when even he’s stumped, and it grates him to no end.

He has half a mind to leave for Will’s without saying anything else, but he can’t not give it one last try. He goes back to the den, where Harry is now sitting up with both dogs around him on the couch, and stands under the archway with his bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m off, then,” he says, searching Harry’s face for cracks. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Harry nods, face puffy and eyes bloodshot, though Louis isn’t sure if he’s high, has been crying, or just had an awful night’s sleep. 

“Are you taking your dog?”

Louis balks.

“No, I’m not taking our bloody dog, for fuck’s sake, Harry! How long do you expect me to—” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to be the one to start the fight they’re gearing towards. He wants Harry to speak his mind like a fucking adult. “Just… let me know if you go on the road again, alright?”

He sees Harry frown. 

“I said I wasn’t.”

Louis doesn’t bother with a reply. He hesitates for one last second, and then turns away towards the front of the house. When he hears a rustling behind him, he thinks it’s Sid following him again. But then he hears the heavy footfalls, and the quiet (sulky), “Lou, wait,” and his stomach twists.

He stops and looks over his shoulder, trying to keep his expression firm. He can tell Harry’s trying to do the same, but he’s such a shitty liar Louis can see right through him. He’s obviously biting back words.

“Yeah?”

Harry walks the last few steps between them and, before Louis can react, throws his arms around Louis’ neck and pulls him into a hug. Louis instinctively puts his free hand between Harry’s shoulder blades and presses down, burying his face in Harry’s shoulder, feeling Harry nuzzle against the side of his neck. Warmth blooms in his chest, though there’s still a heaviness there. Worry and annoyance still all tangled up together. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, again, he’s lost count of how many times he’s asked the same question in the last couple of weeks. He runs his palm up and down Harry’s back. “Tell me.”

Harry squeezes him in his arms, breathes against Louis’s skin, and then pulls away.

“Drive safe,” he says, face flushed and looking off to the side. Louis narrows his eyes. For the first time since he first noticed Harry acting strange, it occurs to Louis that maybe it wasn’t him who fucked up somehow.

“Harry,” he says, “tell me.”

“Text me when you get there,” Harry says, already backing away and Louis wants to grab him, but he lets him go back to the den and his nest of blankets and the sleeping dogs because, as much as he wants to, he can’t force Harry to talk if he’d rather be a stubborn arse and go hide than have a conversation. 

Cursing under his breath, Louis leaves.

.

Louis is the only person allowed to say bad things about Harry. Mainly because he doesn’t mean any of them, but also because he’s the only one with a metaphorical PhD in all things Harry Styles, so he feels he’s suitably informed to talk. He’s the one who’s been there at Harry’s best and his worst. He’s been there for the exciting, for the boring, for the heartbreak and the stress and the joy. Any negative remark Louis might feel like making he feels he’s entitled to, and most importantly, correct. 

Which is why when Will calls Harry a whiny bitch Louis very nearly upends the coffee table in a rage. 

“Watch your fucking mouth!” he snaps instead, jabbing an elbow into Will’s ribs and making him grunt in pain. 

“Alright, sorry!” he cries, half-laughing as he clutches his side. “He is, though.”

“Shut the fuck up, mate, I mean it,” Louis tells him, reaching for his pint just to have something to do wirh his hands. Fucking Will. He’s alright most of the time, but he can get obnoxious fast after a few drinks. He’s not Louis’ closest friend, but they write together fairly often and he’s usually in the city, so he’s kind of a fixed figure in his life. Other than Harry and their family, Louis doesn’t have that many people he gets to see regularly. One of the drawbacks of his job is how feeble everyone’s attention seems to be, and how quickly people seem to move on from one another. 

Louis is not like that, and he’s eternally grateful that he’s found someone similar to him in Harry.

He takes a pull of his beer, feeling bitter all of a sudden. 

When he was fresh out of school and he first moved to the city, Louis never thought he’d find a person he’d want to spend the rest of his life with. Not as young as he was when he did, at least, and not as suddenly and certainly as he’d apparently gone and done. Before the day he realised what Harry meant to him, he didn’t think he’d be alone forever, of course. But he also never entertained the possibility of _ actively _ thinking of someone as the One without an ounce of embarrassment or doubt in his mind. 

And all because of a chair. 

It was an ugly chair, the colour faded and the stuffing flat and spilling out of the seams in places. Louis remembers it was a hundred and fifty quid he didn’t have and Harry _ loved _it. Harry loved all sorts of weird, ugly things. He liked to collect old trinkets and records and vintage t-shirts that always smelled a little off until he wore them enough times, even after washing. Louis didn’t mind that Harry filled their ridiculously tiny flat with stuff he literally found in the skip - not when it made him fuss about putting them on display just so, and maybe muse about how they didn’t have enough space for everything, and inevitably led both of them into hours-long conversations about their dream house, and their dream careers, and their dream life together. 

That chair, though, was a different story. It was huge, for one, and not garbage, but for sale inside an overpriced vintage shop in Notting Hill. It wasn’t even one of the nice shops, but one of the out-of-the-way ones that you had to dig through to find the good stuff in. Harry had spotted the faded aubergine-coloured fabric one Saturday afternoon, visibly balked at the price, and then couldn’t stop moping about it for weeks because apparently it looked just like the one they used to have in the pub his mum worked in when he was a kid, and it would look nice just off the front door in their flat, and it would be a good place to sit and work on their songs, since they didn’t have lots of furniture, it’d be _ perfect, _ wouldn’t it be, Lou? 

So of course Louis had to buy it for him. He _ had _to, even back then. Even if he couldn’t really afford it, and the thought of spending more than a hundred pounds on something they didn’t need to, like, stay alive made him start sweating a little. But it was Harry and Louis had been weak for him since the moment they met and he let the cute boy with the odd-looking blouse cut in line in front of him at a mutual friend’s gig. 

It wasn’t until he was paying for the bloody chair two weeks after they first saw it that it hit him - fuck, he really, truly loved Harry. He’d known he did, of course, but it suddenly felt big and important and a forever kind of love. He was suddenly picturing Harry sitting in his ugly chair when they were old and wrinkled and still very, very much together.

It left him a bit wrong-footed for the rest of the day. It caught him off guard, to feel so strongly about everything all of a sudden like that. They’d only been together for a little over a year then, he had been with people longer and had never felt like giving up a big chunk of his mediocre pay on a present just because. Little gifts and surprises were one thing (and Louis _ loves _ spoiling the people he cares about), but big, ugly and criminally overpriced chairs were a whole new level of commitment for him. 

It was worth it for Harry’s face when he got home from work that night and saw it. Just seeing the confused frown turn into a shocked but delighted smile was enough to instantly turn Louis into mush. He can still remember the way Harry couldn’t stop smiling even as he argued that it was too much and Louis shouldn’t have, the way he hugged him all the same, and then they were kissing and suddenly they had moved onto their bed, not that far away from the front door back then. 

Harry buried his face in Louis’ neck and said Louis spoiled him (which makes Louis want to roll his eyes now, at how new everything was back then) and Louis said _ yes, just don’t let it go to your head, _ and then Harry said something _ else _ about head and spoiled Louis a little in turn. 

It was hours later when Harry, curled up around Louis, mumbled into his chest, “I’m gonna marry you someday.”

Louis didn’t say anything back, just squeezed Harry in his arms until he huffed out a laugh and burrowed in closer. 

“You know why?” he asked, breath hot against the underside of Louis’ jaw. 

“‘Cause I bought you a chair?”

Harry’d lifted his head to meet Louis’ eye. “No,” he said, very serious, and then pressed in impossibly closer, hiding his face again. “Because I always want to make you as happy as you make me. All marriages should be like that, right? And I mean it, even if you didn’t buy me chairs.”

There had been a lump in Louis’ throat keeping every cheesy thing he wanted to say from tumbling out of his mouth. All he could think was thank fucking God they were on the same page because, if Harry wanted to get rid of him any time soon, he was going to need a crowbar to get Louis to let go.

Sitting next to Will in his loft in the middle of London, Louis downs what’s left of his drink. Life didn’t end up being as straightforward as they’d thought it’d be back then. Writing songs in their stinky little flat had turned into little gigs, and album deals, and tours faster than they could blink, and their version of marriage turned out to be more symbolic than official, but after fourteen years Louis wasn’t sure if there was a difference at all. Unlike Will and his sterile, overly bright and soulless flat, Harry and Louis have made a home. A place that feels alive even if they don’t get to spend as much time in it as they wish. 

But what if their life has started to feel like this to Harry? Like Louis feels at Will’s, like he’s on a stage instead of a place people actually live in. The worry starts to creep in again, making way through the anger, and Louis gets up for a refill.

“Top me up, too,” Will calls, and Louis grunts in acknowledgement before disappearing towards the kitchen. 

He checks his phone as soon as he’s alone, but other than a string of new messages from people he doesn’t care about at the moment, there’s nothing he wants to see. No apology or explanation from Harry. Not even an update on Sid, the needy little pup that can’t stand it when Louis leaves him behind. Louis scoffs to himself. Harry thought Louis was going to take Sid with him - he certainly isn’t expecting Louis back for a while. He isn’t going to text an apology. 

Louis pockets his phone and opens the fridge.

. . .

This is all his fault and Harry bloody well knows it. This is what he gets for trying to be spontaneous - he’s alone, and pissed off, and having a bit of a jealous fit over _ nothing _ but hey, he’s already acting like a twat, he might as well go all the way and add jealousy to the bag. Bloody Will. It figures he’s the one Louis would go to, since the guy doesn’t have a life unless he’s crashing a party he hasn’t been invited to or is knocking on their door to collab when he needs some quick money for whatever the hell it is he splurges on. Harry should’ve known Louis would want to be away from him and that Will’s the only one of their acquaintances who’s _ always _ home. Too bad hindsight is as useless to him as feeling sorry for himself is, not that he’s gonna stop with either any time soon. 

Harry knows he had it coming. He’s been an arsehole since he got home nearly a month ago and it’s only gotten worse since his cockup_ . _ Though an arsehole is mild compared to what bloody Will is probably calling him right now. And what Louis is probably agreeing he is, rightfully so. Harry’s embarrassed to be inside his own head sometimes. His brain likes to twist in on itself, is the problem. He overthinks and he stresses too much and he gets angry for no reason, no matter how much he _ tries _ to be a reasonable human being. 

Maybe he’s just too used to getting his way. That’s what everyone says, anyway. Then again, everyone is always happy to find flaws in him, he’s noticed. It’s been like that since the beginning and tabloids would write about him being an unwashed, smelly, wannabe pop star and he would whine to Louis that, one, you’re not supposed to shampoo your hair everyday, and two, he didn’t smell bad. Did he? Fuck, _did_ _he? _And Louis would reassure him, and give him and indulgent sniff, and then forbid him from googling himself, either of them, would force him to just put his phone down and focus on work.

Louis’ always been the voice in Harry’s head keeping him grounded. Maybe that’s why Harry turns into a tit whenever they’re apart too long. When everyone is happy to bend themselves backwards for every little one of his whims, it’s hard to keep level-headed. He feels justified sometimes, when he puts it that way. But then he remembers the way he nearly had a meltdown over a packet of crisps his first night home a month ago and has to bury his face in Nina’s fur in shame. 

It’s a wonder Louis can still stand him, fourteen years and counting. Hopefully still counting. Surely. Him and Louis have gone through enough shit together not to let a bad couple of weeks be the reason they call it quits, even if Harry wouldn’t blame Louis if he’s thinking things over. 

He groans and flops onto his back on the couch. Who is he kidding? Harry would never have let Louis go to fucking Will’s if he thought for a second he wasn’t coming back. Still, he’s nothing if not dramatic, and he feels a hundred percent entitled to his theatrics given the circumstances. He’s been _ left. _

God, he knows he’s pathetic when he gets like this. At least only Louis ever gets to see him. Him and Sid and Nina, but they would never tell a soul. Nina is all too happy to snuggle up to him most of the time and listen to him talk, no matter his mood, and Sid’s too busy having a crisis of his own about Louis leaving without him - Harry can hear him whining from the front of the house. 

It’s not often Harry’s left home alone when they’re both in England. Prolonged amounts of time together (that don’t involve any type of work-related activity) are rare enough they usually bask in it. Harry spent his last couple of weeks on the road counting down the days to locking himself in the house with Louis and their dogs and no seeing another soul until they absolutely had to. He’d been an anxious wreck by the night before he was due in London, and then his manager (he loves her, but just thinking about her right now sets his teeth on edge) happened to say something that had felt unnecessarily cruel, although it was obvious she had no idea she had just sent Harry spiralling.

They were in a VIP lounge in an airport somewhere in the US and Harry’s knee was bouncing.

“Louis’ll divorce me if I’m not home by tomorrow,” he joked.

Not looking up from her phone as she tried to book last-minute plane tickets after they’d missed their flight back to the UK, she’d replied, “Wouldn’t you have to be married first?”

Harry almost doubled over from the unexpected blow.

Needless to say, he wasn’t feeling his best when he finally made it home. The house was warm and lived-in when he got there, and Louis gathered him up in his arms and let Harry sleep on him until he felt a bit more settled. But the feeling of having done something wrong didn’t go away for days and days. They used to talk about getting married all the time, back before their lives went crazy. It was one of the first topics they both got out of the way when they started dating - both wanted to make sure they were on the same page. They had no rush, but marriage was definitely somewhere down in the future for them. 

But then they got busy, and priorities changed, and while Harry still thought about it sometimes (about a ceremony, their sisters as bridesmaids, an actual honeymoon somewhere lovely and secluded) he usually forgot they weren’t actually, properly married. And it was something Louis had always wanted as much as him, and something Harry suddenly felt he hadn’t given him, when Louis gave him so much, all the time.

And while it was something that occasionally popped up in Harry’s thoughts, after that comment at the airport it was suddenly at the forefront of his mind all the time, and he had to do something about it. He couldn’t look at Louis and not think about how he used to fantasise about proposing to him, back when the thought of spending money on a ring nearly made him break out in hives but he still saved every penny he could. 

His main problem, though, is that Harry isn’t as good at surprises as Louis. He always wants to make sure the other person loves it, so he ends up double-checking with them, just in case. And the times he manages to arrange something, he inevitably blurts it out at the last minute on accident, after hours of stressing and overthinking, and overplanning. 

So he thought he wouldn't overthink this time. He would surprise Louis, be spontaneous. He’d only been home about a week, Louis was still being extremely gentle with him, as if he sensed something was wrong. Harry would surprise him, Louis would say yes, and then Harry would marry the shit out of him. It would be the most romantic proposal in the history of proposals but he would _ not _ stress about it. He would let it happen naturally. _ Casually. _

It ended up being so casual Louis didn’t even bloody _ notice. _ And it figures Harry would fail to woo Louis off his feet when all Louis has to do is blink in his direction and Harry is out for the count. Clearly people who think Harry is irresistible and suave are deluded, when the love of his life can’t even tell when Harry’s _ proposed. _ All Louis did was laugh, pull on Harry’s hair a bit, and get off the bed for the shower because, okay, it might not have been Harry’s best idea to try to do it right after sex but he was trying to be _ spontaneous. _ He’d just looked at Louis’ still flushed face and he had to do it right then.

Everything probably got worse then, because all of a sudden Harry couldn’t stop doing what he’d promised he wouldn’t: overthinking to the point of madness. Every time he was about to open his mouth to try again he thought of Louis laughing and dismissing him and how it had actually hurt a little.

He started noticing Louis noticing him being weird, and he started noticing him losing his patience, and being a bit more short, and when he asked what’s wrong Harry couldn’t exactly explain - like, he knew it was ridiculous, and he still had some pride left. He could always have tried again, or he could have insisted that first time, but it felt like there was a huge block in his brain and he couldn't explain and he couldn’t move on or shake off his dark, weird mood.

So yeah, he was a bit of a diva going to sleep on the couch without a word but maybe he wanted Louis to shake the words out of him instead of being so unbearably fucking soft. And yeah, maybe he was a bit of a prick not answering Louis’ questions and letting him leave for fucking Will’s - but at least he’d gotten his head out of his arse long enough to give him a hug and wishing him a safe drive. 

(He doesn't know what he’d do if Louis got in an accident when Harry hadn’t wished him safe. Fuck, no, he can’t even think about it for long.) 

And now it’s been too long and Harry feels foolish, wants to forget the whole thing, but he’s not good at that at all. If he could reset time, he would go back to that first night back home, get on one knee and beg Louis to marry him. Using all the words, making sure Louis understood what’s going on. And if Louis laughed, Harry would beg harder. 

Just then, Sid lets out a long, pitiful wail from the front of the house and Harry shakes himself out of his thoughts. He hasn’t gotten off the couch today yet except to turn off the oven in the kitchen (for a moment he’d thought Louis did it on purpose, but setting a small fire was a bit closer to something Harry would do to get Louis’ attention than the other way around). Now it’s the afternoon and he still doesn’t want to get up. He has nothing to do, no work, no energy to write, he’s not in the mood to watch a film or read or talk to anyone on the phone. He feels like he’s still dragging the exhaustion from tour around, even though it’s been over for a month. He’s been so preoccupied he feels like he hasn’t rested properly, and he has no one to blame it on but himself.

But then Sid cries out again, and Harry heaves himself to his feet. He finds the little dog sitting by the front door, head thrown back in the saddest display of heartbreak Harry’s ever seen.

“I know,” he says, and crouches down to scratch Sid’s tiny head. “I know, it sucks, doesn’t it.”

Nina, who cannot stand not to be in the spotlight, insinuates herself between them and paws at Harry’s arm until he’s petting her, too. So here Harry is, just him and his two needy dogs, husbandless and sad and probably (definitely) smelly. All because he thought he could be casual about something. For fourteen years, Harry’s been living with the cute boy he flirted with just so he could cut in line, and he’s made an insanely successful career out of what he used to think as a silly hobby. He’s never done anything casual in his _ life. _

His proposal was supposed to be special because it was so romantic and sweet and unexpected. Not because he botched it so spectacularly he drove his would-be-fiancé out of the house. Harry guesses he just has a gift for making everything into an Event, even when he doesn’t mean to. 

With a sigh, he plops down on his bum and lets Sid climb onto his lap (has to stop Nina from crushing his balls trying to get on him as well, she’s bigger than him sitting down and thinks she’s as little as Sid). If Louis were here he would be laughing about them somehow ending up with the clingiest dogs in the world, as if he doesn’t love it when Sid goes batshit every time he lays eyes on Louis. Harry has a folder on his phone exclusively to save photos of Sid looking in love with Louis. And while he can relate, Sid and him can’t exactly help make each other feel better right now when they’re upset about the same thing. Mostly. Sid doesn’t know this is all Harry’s fault, or he wouldn't be cuddling him. 

Harry gives him extra scritches behind the ears. 

Sid was one of Harry overly-planned plans. They had Nina, Louis had found her on the side of the road driving back from Doncaster and brought her to Harry wearing one of his jumpers. She was huge but skinny and skittish and loved body heat and would kick Louis out of bed just to snuggle up to Harry. So, Harry thought Louis needed a dog of his own. And he searched, and searched, made pros and cons lists, called shelters, friends, made nearly insane trying to find the perfect one, only to give up, convinced Louis to go to a shelter with him, and let him find his dog himself. 

Harry loves giving gifts, he just doesn’t understand why he’s not better at it. It always seems effortless for Louis. If Harry happens to see something he likes, it’s like Louis can look right into his mind and he’s getting it for Harry before he can protest. He even did it at the very beginning, when they had barely enough to cover rent and food, he would bring Harry little presents after work - a sweet, or a record, or one of the little trinkets he used to collect. They still have the chair Louis got him, right there where Harry is sitting by the front door, where it’s always been in every home they’ve shared. It’s bloody ugly, but every time Harry looks at it he remembers the day Louis got it, and how when he saw it, Harry thought, _ “I’m gonna marry him and give him everything forever.” _

He still wants to marry him and give him everything forever. He kisses the top of Sid’s head and puts him back on the floor. He thinks he’s left his phone on the couch. 

…

_ Please come home. H _

...

Louis gets Harry’s text when he’s halfway to plastered, and it takes him more than one try to unlock his phone to reply:

_Cnt drukn_  
_ Drubk_  
_ Drunk_

Up until five seconds ago, he’d managed to forget why exactly he’s sat on Will’s couch drinking without pausing for breath. He’d been pleasantly warm, and since Will’s passed out on one of the other couches, Louis had been sitting, staring at the ceiling and enjoying the silence. 

Now, with Harry’s message, the alcohol’s turned to lead in his stomach. 

His mobile buzzes in his hand and he sees new words appear on the screen. 

_ Will? _

Louis snaps a shaky picture of Will, comatose and half under a pile of cushions, and sends it.

_ Uber? _

Even hazy as everything feels, Louis recognizes Harry not making fun of Will as a sign of something. He might be upset Louis left, or he might be ready to talk. Or maybe something’s happened to one of the dogs, he thinks, but quickly dismisses that option (even if it makes his stomach turn) because Harry doesn’t text during emergencies. He either phones in a monotone-voiced panic or waits for Louis to find out on his own - like when he broke his arm falling off a stage in Dublin and Louis happened to read about it on an Australian rag two days later, halfway across the world from him. 

So Harry somehow gets Louis an Uber, and ten minutes after his last text Louis is in the back of a car, dizzily staring out the window, trying to remember the last time he actually got an Uber, or if he ever did at all before tonight. 

He must fall asleep, because he blinks and then he’s startling at the sound of the driver’s voice, and when he looks out the window again, there’s their front gate, a little light over the code pad on the driver’s side.

But before Louis can even begin to try to remember the manual code (he’s not sure he took his car keys from Will’s, with the little fob thing), the door right off the side of the gates opens and Harry’s there, waving him over. 

Louis thanks the driver and stumbles a bit getting out of the car. He hears a honk and then the car driving away behind him, but his sight is fixed on Harry, wearing an old hoodie and looking… sheepish? Angry? Louis is too drunk to tell. 

Before Louis reaches him, Harry disappears through the door, and a second later a speckled ball of fur and excitement is making a beeline for him, whining and turning in circles by Louis’ feet. 

“Heey, ‘s me boy Sid,” Louis says, voice a bit hoarse, crouching and scratching the pup’s neck and back and trying to keep him from jumping on him and sending him stumbling on his bum in the mud. “Ya miss me, puppy?”

Sid rolls onto his back and kicks his little legs around and Louis laughs, all the while feeling Harry’s eyes on the top of his head. He’s not sure he’s in any state to be having serious talks, but knowing Harry, they have to do it now before he loses his nerve. 

Petting Sid’s belly, Louis looks up through his lashes, barely lifting his chin, just to check if Harry really is staring, and when he finds he is, he raises his eyebrows.

“Guess _ you _ missed me, too, didn't you?”

Which, if Louis were sober, he wouldn’t choose this moment to be a cheeky bastard. But he’s not, so he does, and watches Harry fight down a smile with a scowl and feels a little lighter with relief.

“Come on before it starts raining,” is all Harry says, and disappears through the door again, leaving Louis to follow without tripping on the dog. 

He’s expecting a car on the other side of the gate, but it seems Harry and Sid walked here, since once Louis closes the heavy door behind him, all he sees are trees and Harry standing there looking a little lost. 

It’s nearly a kilometer back to the house, but the path is well lit and not terribly complicated, so Louis starts walking, Harry matching his stride and settling at his shoulder in silence. 

It’s about two minutes before he takes Louis’ hand.

“Sorry,” he says. Louis squeezes his hand. 

“Mmh,” he hums. “Maybe tell me what the whole thing was about before you say sorry.”

“It’s a bit stupid.”

“Don’t know about that.”

“It is,” Harry insists. They stop while Sid disappears over the treeline to explore. “Like, you’ll leave again when I tell you.”

Fuck, maybe Louis really is too drunk for this conversation. He feels like Harry’s about to pull the rug from under him and his balance is already compromised, he can’t be getting devastating news right now. 

He tries to joke, “Are you asking me for a divorce?”

And Harry, a little more scathingly than Louis is expecting, says, “Can’t get a divorce if we’re not married.”

Feeling sluggish, Louis can only blink at the unexpected vitriol in Harry’s tone. He’s about to ask _ what the fuck _ when he sees Harry make a face and look down.

“Sorry. Again.”

“Alright,” Louis says slowly. It’s gotten dark, and he’s having a hard time deciphering Harry’s expression. He wants to reach out and lift Harry’s face up, but his free hand is a fist at his side. 

“It’s just…” Harry starts. “I wish I _ could _ ask for a divorce.”

Somewhere among the bushes Sid yips, and Louis kind of sways in place.

“Harry—”

Harry looks up so fast Louis nearly stumbles back. 

“No!” he says. “That’s not what I— I mean, I wish we were _ married! _ That’s what I mean.”

“We are—”

“We’re not. I know it wouldn’t make a difference but… we were supposed to. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“And then we didn’t.”

“Yet,” Louis points out.

“Yeah, not yet. That’s why I proposed.”

“Yeah," Louis says. Then, "Wait.” He's having a hard time following this conversation. The last thing he’d been expecting Harry to start talking about was marriage, of all things. They're married in all the ways that count, in his opinion. He thought they were on the same page about that. “Wait. You _ proposed?” _

“Yeah.”

_ “When?” _

“A few weeks ago! Remember, we were in bed—”

“Are you sure I was awake?”

“—and I said ‘I’d be the happiest man in the world if you’d say you’ll marry me,’ and then I said ‘will you?’ and you _ laughed.” _

“I _ laughed?” _

“Yes! You laughed!”

“Wait.” There’s something coming through the fog in Louis’ brain. “You mean… when you tied that ribbon around my dick right after we fucked?”

“Yes, that time.”

Louis swears he’s about to commit a crime.

“Are you bloody serious?” His voice gets so high Sid comes out of hiding and trots towards them. Louis feels suddenly very, very sober. “I thought you were joking!”

“I wasn’t! I wouldn’t joke about that!”

“Fuck, I thought _‘ok he’s come his brains out, I’m brilliant'_, I can’t fucking believe you!”

“I was trying to surprise you!”

“All this time you’ve been sulking because you thought I laughed at you when you proposed? Do you even know me?”

“No, I was angry you didn’t realise—”

“How is this my fault? You—”

“No, I know it’s not your fault!”

“Then how come you’ve been bloody torturing me, making me think I’d done something awful—”

“I didn’t—”

“You let me go to bloody _ Will’s,” _Louis concludes, gesturing wildly but still holding Harry’s hand, which probably looks ridiculous but the only one here to see is Sid, so Louis doesn’t care. 

“Yeah, I hated that, too. I was angry at myself. I wanted to be spontaneous and not ruin the surprise for you, so I tried not to overthink and… I went a bit overboard.”

Louis deflates, looking at Harry’s stupid, pinched face. He’s such a beautiful idiot. Louis _ should _ fucking divorce him for the stress of the last month alone. He should bloody _ sue _ him.

“I can’t believe you,” he says, quieter, and a little too fond to sound as chastising as he wants. 

“I’m sorry. Really. I love you.”

“No, don’t _ I love you _me, you’re carrying me the rest of the way home,” he jokes, starting to feel the relief rushing in, a smile spreading across his face. 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Harry says and Louis rolls his eyes. 

“I’m kidding, you’ll kill us both.”

“No, I’ll piggyback-ride you.” He turns on the spot and presents his back to Louis. “Come on.”

“Haz, you’re not twenty anymore, love. Or thirty, for that matter.”

“Hey, I can still do it.”

“Carry Sid, he’s too little to walk all the way twice.”

Harry picks Sid up without another word, and then takes Louis’ hand again and presses it to his mouth, kisses his knuckles. He doesn’t look as ashamed of himself as he should, but Louis can let it slide. 

“Don’t do that again,” he tells Harry. “Talk to me. We’re good at that, just out of practice sometimes.”

“I know, it was just embarrassing, you know...after a few days.”

“You don’t have to get embarrassed with me. Remember when you proposed by putting a ribbon on me cock? That was way worse than acting like a stroppy child for nothing.”

Harry laughs, pulling Louis closer so that he can put an arm around his shoulders as they walk. Louis leans in to kiss his cheek, lips cold against warm skin. He really is marrying this dolt. He always knew he would. They walk under the trees together, Sid calm in the cradle of Harry’s arm, and when it starts to drizzle, Louis pulls Harry’s hood up and tucks his ears in for him. 

“I threw the engagement ring in the rubbish, just so you know,” he says. “Was a bit disgusting.”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“I still have the one I bought you for our second anniversary,” Louis goes on, stroking Harry’s ring finger with his thumb. “Though it'll probably turn your skin green.”

Harry stops dead in his tracks and turns to him, eyes wide. “What?”

“I mean, it’s probably tin or something, but it’s got sentimental value, I guess.”

“You got me a ring?” 

Smiling, Louis brushes the little rain droplets from Harry's face with the back of his hand. 

“You may overthink everything, but I’ve been planning _ my _ proposal for over a decade, love.”

“What?” Harry sounds a little breathless.

“We’re already married, that’s how I feel. But I thought we should do something a bit more traditional eventually. Even if it happens when we’re seventy and our kids are all grown up.”

“Kids?”

“Of course kids. Though I don’t know how I feel about telling them the story of how we got engaged now. Might be a bit more than they'd want to know.”

“Engaged?”

Louis pinches Harry’s nose (it’s turning red, which means tears might be imminent).

“That’s what happens when you propose and the other person says yes, isn’t it?”

“Y-you said yes?” 

Unable to torture Harry any longer, Louis leans in and kisses him on the lips. Finally. He feels Harry kissing back, presses in closer and kisses harder. 

It’s raining properly when they stop, and before Harry can make any _ The Notebook _ references, Louis kisses him again, close-mouthed and hard enough to sting. 

“Not in as many words,” he says against Harry’s lips. He pulls back and takes Sid, puts him under his jacket. “But did you for a second thought I’d say no?”

Harry looks a little drunk himself now, mouth puffy and cheeks red. He licks his lips and reaches for Louis, takes his hand again. 

“I still want to hear it,” he pleads, and the word is on the tip of Louis’ tongue. He knows how this goes, Harry asks for something and people fold immediately. 

It’s good for him that, sometimes, Louis knows how to give him a hard time, too. 

“Hear what?” he asks, and starts walking again, pulling a whining Harry behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt: Character A proposes to Character B with a made up ring (a twist tie, a gumball prize, etc). Though they were being real, Character B seems to think it was a joke.**


End file.
